


Come Back Home

by awkward_ace



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Character Study, Complicated Relationships, Developing Friendships, Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - In Hushed Whispers, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Kissing, Mage-Templar Dynamics (Dragon Age), Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Non-Canon Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Other, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - In Hushed Whispers, Pre-Relationship, Relationship Study, Romance, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:01:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkward_ace/pseuds/awkward_ace
Summary: Their relationship is complicated as it is--elf and human, mage and templar. But they've managed to find something that looks much like friendship. But Redcliffe is hard on Pria Lavellan--harder still is the fall out between them and Cullen when they return home.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus & Cullen Rutherford, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan & Dorian Pavus, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford, Female Mage Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Mage Inquisitor & Dorian Pavus
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	Come Back Home

**let's do the time-warp again**

The first time she kisses him, it isn’t even really him. 

At least, that’s what she tries, and fails, to convince herself of, because even if it’s a _possible_ future she’s found herself flung headlong into, and even if he’s half-twisted and snarling in pain from the bloody red lyrium that sprouts through his skin, it’s still _Cullen_. 

Serious, stoic, sad, uptight Cullen, who is afraid of her magic, who aggravates her to no end, whose smile is rare and brilliant and charmingly boyish, and who is the man who willingly placed himself between her and the people who would reach out to touch her and her clothes those first stomach-turning weeks when she learned what it meant to be “holy” to the shemlen. 

They’d found a tenuous understanding, sort of, had managed to make a careful, fragile friendship that was _important_ , and his eyes were still beautiful, his hair still golden curls threaded with silver, and his face was still handsome and so sad that she wanted to kiss that sadness away. 

So here she finds herself, in this terrible future, looking at what will happen with her _failure_ , and all she can do when they clash, is kiss him. 

Hand tangled into his hair and hooked into his armor, ignoring the dull jabs of the humming crystal as her body presses to his, biting his lip as he takes a sharp, ragged breath. 

And then he’s kissing her back and it isn’t soft or gentle or sweet, or any of those things. It’s rough, and hard, tastes of old metallic blood and rancid syrup, and she almost _feels_ the pain behind it, can feel the sting as his fingers dig onto her shoulder and hips hard enough to bruise. He moans, a distorted, echoing sound and all the fight goes out of him. 

“I’m sorry,” she breathes against his lips, ignoring the welling sting in her eyes, moves her hands to cup his face, to sketch her thumbs over his jaw and cheekbones, “I’m _so sorry_.” 

“You were gone,” he whispers, voice trembling, “Maker, _you disappeared, you died,_ and I couldn’t-- _I tried_ \--” 

“Cullen, I’m _so sorry.”_

He drags in a ragged breath, the air rattling into his chest, making him sound almost hollow, and his arms tighten. “You always come back,” he breathes, “ _You always come back_ .” And then _he’s_ kissing _her_ , and it’s all hunger and fire and pained sadness and she’s crushed between the wall and him and now she’s the one who moans. 

_Cullen._

Everything she shouldn’t want, everything she has been taught to fear, and he makes her _so mad_ but there’s a kindness and softness in him and she _wants him_. 

Pria is breathless when he finally breaks his kiss, breathless and buzzing, she can feel a faint trembling in her limbs, the churn of desire in her belly. “Tell me we can fix this,” he begs, “Tell me this can be undone.” 

She nods, haltingly, still breathless and trying to find words while she finds her body thrilling and _wanting him_ , even in this horrifically inappropriate moment and _very unfortunate_ setting. 

He swallows, roughly, shudders and winces as something wracks him. She strokes her fingers through his hair, soothingly, gently, and is rewarded by his low sigh and him pressing into her touch. 

“Good. Tell me what you need me to do.” 

In that moment, Pria thinks she might be, stupidly and unreasonably, a little in love with him. 

There is something in the red that pulls him from her, in the end. Or nearly does. 

Cullen is Fereldan, born and bred, and Feledans, she’s found, are a stubborn people with their roots dug deep into earth and rock. 

So even there, in the end, as demons fall from rifts Alexius tears open, and the red sings loud and high and she can _see_ him slipping away, his sword pinned by her staff, he’s fighting it, teeth grit and bared against whatever it is in the red that eats at him. 

“Fight it,” she pleads with him, voice whisper-soft and panting, because she’s so tired, and she _hurts. “Please,_ Cullen, _Fight it._ For me.” 

His snarling lips twist, somewhere between a grimace and a pained smile. “It’s _always_ been for you,” he manages, and then shoves her away with a growl. 

She brings her staff back up instinctively, every sweaty, sore hour spent with her grandmother and father as a youngster making her _just_ strong enough to catch the next blow of his sword and deflect it aside, _just_ barely fast enough to make a quick spin into him and against him. 

He’s _losing_ to the red. She can see it in his eyes, the intensity of the glow in them, the gleam of unfamiliarity and madness, the veins that have crept up his neck, the ragged, wet sound of his breathing. 

“ _Cullen, please, I need you,”_ she tells him, because it’s true, _she needs him_ , she needs him beside her because he’s a stubborn prat and he makes her _so mad_ sometimes, but he is _there_ . Whatever help she’s needed, he’s given, whatever request she’s passed to him, he’s fulfilled as best he could. _She cannot save this damn world without his help._

_“Kill me_ ,” he hisses back at her, looking wild and angry, and there’s something desperate in his eyes that’s fading fast. “I _will not_ be responsible for your death, not again.” 

She’d just as soon kill her own brother! 

And yet... 

Centuries of struggle have hardened the Dalish. Years of being hunted for sport, for “heresy”, of persecution and prejudice, of living in fear and surviving the wilds, of constantly moving and scraping together what they could of their history and culture have all forged an edge of silverite and steel that makes them adaptable, hard, persistent. Unflinching in what one sometimes find that they _must_ do to continue forward. 

There’s a ruthlessness, in her core, a coldness she’s familiar with, a side of her that she’s only really fallen into a few times in her life. It has never been pretty, and it has sometimes hurt—she's not sure if it’s a gift or a curse, at times. 

That coldness brushes against her now, steels her against the pain and sorrow. 

“Kill me,” he says again, pleading, “ _Please, Pria.”_ His voice is gravely, and broken, the words bitten out by sheer force of will alone. “Better dying who I am than lost to _this_.” 

She understands. Better to die a man than to become a monster, the mind lost to bloody red and high singing, malice and rage left in place, nothing but a puppet to some shadowed puppeteer. There’s fear there, in his eyes, old fear—fear that tells her that he’s, somehow, been here before. 

There’s a faint crack as his swing goes wide, skittering off the edge of her staff blade as he forces himself to miss, to stumble at the last moment. “Please,” he whispers, free hand grabbing the staff near her hand, clutching it tightly, white-knuckled. 

Pria is the eye of a storm. Abruptly calm and clear, crystalline. Ice. The cold, dark depths of the sea, still, silent. 

She would just as soon kill her own brother. But she _would_ , if he was suffering, and losing himself. And he would do the same for her. 

Ruthless, that. But sometimes that’s what she had to be. 

The old elvhen gods of her mother and her aunt would be proud, she thinks. And sad. 

Always, sad. 

Cullen gasps faintly as her dagger, flashed silently from her back, slides neatly and easily between his fourth and fifth rib, eyes widening in surprise. 

_Always keep your dagger razor sharp_. 

He slumps against her and she catches his weight, stumbling and hastily dropping to her knees, pulling him into her and wrapping her arms tightly around him. Blood bubbles up and over his lips, turns his teeth pink as he smiles faintly. 

“I’m _sorry,”_ she whispers tearfully, the ice and eye of the storm gone. She touches his face gently, presses her forehead to his, “ _I’m so sorry.”_

His skin is hot and dry as his fingertips gently stroke against her cheek. “Come back,” he chokes out, still smiling, “Promise.” 

She sniffs, chokes back a sob, and nods. “I promise,” she says, “I’ll come back. I will _always_ come back to you.” 

His smile widens, and the hand at her neck pulls gently— _weakly_ _._ She follows, and his blood is sticky and tastes of lyrium and corrupted magic as she kisses him again, kisses him _back._

And then he’s gone, a last breath rattling out and he goes lax in her arms. 

She feels something in her _shatter_ . _Scream._

And then... _cold._

She pulls away, slowly, brushes hair from his eyes delicately and carefully lays him down. 

Ice. Deep, cold depths. 

_Stillness_. 

_You are_ **_such_ ** _a_ **_harpy_ **, Haldir’s voice echoes in her mind, beloved cousin who is right about so many things. 

Harpies are creatures of vengeance and ferocity, vicious in a fight, in defending themselves and their rookeries. Magic, old magic, pouring from talon and voice. There’s a reason sailors avoid cliffs known to house harpies, why they make signs of warding when someone mentions an infamous harpy by name. 

Pria looks up, eyes locking onto Alexius. 

_I want his head,_ she decides. 

Harpies are notorious for the trophies they braid into their hair, that they wear on their necks. 

She stands, and the air crackles and pulls around her, the beginnings of a tempest, spitting static sparks. 

She is _not_ the eye of a storm, any longer. There is no _stillness_. 

There is only ice, crystal cold and hard, and the loud, triumphant shriek of a harpy, right before her claws close around the fool who crossed her. 

Alexius, in this wretched future, never _quite_ understands what hits him. Neither do most fools who cross a harpy. 

~*~*~*~ 

Pria...was mistaken. 

She had, it seems, forgotten that the Cullen of the future was not the Cullen of the _now_ , so it only makes sense that he wouldn’t react the way she thought he might, because he hadn’t _been through_ the year that future-Cullen had. 

She _thought_ he’d be happy to see her. She _thought_ she might look into how he might feel if she kissed him in the _now_ . She _thought_ that he would understand. She _thought_ they might be well on their way to working passed his hang up on Chantry lies. She _thought_...wrong. 

It _hurts_. 

Oh, it _hurts_ , when he turns towards her as she approaches them in the Chantry, and instead of welcome and happiness, there’s _fear_ and _anger._

_“What were you thinking, letting mages run loose?”_

Why can’t he understand? Why can’t _any of them_ understand? 

_I’m not a monster. We are not the monsters. No one deserves to have their life decided for them, to be locked away just because of an accident of birth._

_We can keep ourselves grounded and safe. Just give us the chance to show you._

Even Cassandra’s support, _though she doesn’t agree with the decision_ , doesn’t help the sting. 

“I was _thinking_ ,” she retorts waspishly, “That they deserve some room to _breathe_ . And to show _all of you_ that _they do not need to be caged_.” 

Having the shadow of a sword over your neck, the threat of a glowing brand, _your children taken away_ , _no lovers and spouses_ , _no choices_ —that's not living. 

He’s scowling, and for an instance she can see the snarl in his face, the red glow of his eyes, the dull pulse of red in his veins. 

She blinks and it’s gone, but there’s still blood and corruption in her mouth, on her tongue. 

_Why must I want you so?_

The sound of horns interrupts their stare down, and Leliana sends her a small, conspiratorial smile and Pria is _so thankful_ that Leliana is _Leliana_ . The Spymaster may not trust her, and she might not entirely trust the Spymaster, but Leliana, at the least, _understands_. 

And is willing to do things a little underhandedly and behind everyone’s backs. 

“That would be the Templars,” she informs the Inquisition’s Commander, who goes from scowling to befuddled and stunned in an instant. “I decided to go with option three—both.” 

The option no one thought they had. 

It had been easy enough to learn Ser Barris’ name; a little less easy, she thinks, to get a message to him, but Leliana worked her own sort of magic, and now they had the Templars, too. Not all of them, not even close...but enough. 

Enough who had been presented with _another option_ and who, uneasy with how the Lord Seeker was acting, wanting to _help_ somehow, accepted the invitation the Herald of Andraste had extended to them. 

_Join us. Help us. We can stop this war and save this world_ **_together._ **

**_“_ **You’re welcome,” she spat at Cullen, flatly, and turned on her heel, leaving them behind her. 

The sooner this stupid Breach was sealed and whoever _opened_ it was found, the sooner she could return to her clan and start to _forget_ all of this. 

She could _forget_ Cullen-fucking-Rutherford and his pretty eyes and his handsome, kiss-the-sad-away face. 

But first... 

She raised a hand and pressed it against her chest, over an inner pocket in her jacket. In it she had carefully folded the rag she had used to clean _his_ blood from her face and hands. 

It rested against her, heavy, and she had been unable to throw it away. Silly, she supposed; since they were back, that future _technically_ hadn’t happened, which means she _technically_ had never killed him, which means he _technically_ hadn’t died and that _technically,_ she had never kissed him, and he had never kissed back. Or kissed her at all. 

But it _had_ happened—to her, at least—she had experienced it, and that made it real. So. 

First things first, she intended to give him as best a funeral as she could. 

~*~*~*~ 

Cullen’s head is _still_ spinning 

After two weeks, his head was _still spinning_ trying to comprehend how— **_how?!_ **\--the Herald had managed to get both mage and Templar. Obviously, Leliana had been a part of it. Obviously! 

But their interaction with the Order in Val Royeaux had been less than productive, and he had known it in his bones that the moment the Herald accepted the mages’ invitation, the door to Templar assistance would slam shut and never open again. 

And yet...here they were. 

It seemed he still had something to learn about what other people would do for what they saw to be the right thing. That some people were stronger than he had been when it came to having the courage to _do_ the right thing, damn the consequences or who was in charge. 

Or, perhaps, there was something more to the Iron Bull’s amused snort of “ _You’ve_ tried telling them ‘no’. How’d that work for ya?” 

Perhaps he wasn’t the _only_ one who seemed incapable of winning arguments with her. 

So. Here they were, two weeks later, richer in both mage and Templar numbers and things are tense but they’re getting...a little better. Slowly. At least between Templar and mage. 

Between himself and the Herald...not so much. 

They’ve barely spoken, merely courteous but precise words across the war table, and she is always out the door before he is and she is _maddeningly_ difficult to find when she has a mind to not be found. He’s even checked her ( their ?) usual haunt of the dock over the lake and she is _not there_ . Ever. He feels the phantom touch of her hand in his, tracing the lines of his palm as she reads it, and he, for some reason he’s not ready to think about too closely, _misses her_. 

This feels different than the rows and spats they’ve had before. Those were grating, and stung like a skinned knee, but this is...sharper. Jagged edges and shattered pieces that sink in and hurt when pressed or brushed against. 

He isn’t sure how to make it better—if an apology would be enough. If an apology would even be worthwhile because there are _so many_ mages now, in the camp, more mages than there are Templars, and lyrium is still a bit difficult to get and the Breach is still making things tender and volatile and Maker, what if _something goes wrong_? 

He doesn’t think he’ll survive something like Kinlock or Kirkwall again. He already feels worn and stretched thin, haggard at the edges of himself. 

All it would take is _one._ One abomination, one blood mage and then... 

He shudders and becomes aware enough of his surroundings to realize that he’s being looked at intently. 

Cullen turns and finds the Tevinter mage there, Dorian, he recalls, fighting away a sickly twist in his stomach that he tells himself _is not_ jealousy. 

He _is not_ jealous by how _immediately smitten_ the Herald so clearly is with the man. How she lingers near him, companionable arm resting on his shoulder or standing just near enough to him that their arms brush. He’s seen Dorian swan into her little house as if he owns the place any time he pleases, day and night, and to make things worse, the few elves who seem to have appointed themselves her personal staff, who guard her personal space studiously, just _let him_. 

He is _not jealous_ by the easy closeness, the easy _intimacy_ that seems to have sprung up between the pair. 

So, what? 

What of it if the Herald has set her lovely eyes on someone like Dorian—Cullen is here to do his job. To do what _needs_ to be done. To start to try and atone for everything he has ever done. He isn’t here to make friends or to find love (even if, in the cracks and crevices of his broken, awkwardly healing together self, he _aches_ for these things). 

“Can I help you, ser?” he says, managing to keep his tone civil, if a bit terse. 

“That depends,” Dorian replies with an arch tone and cavalier quirk of an eyebrow, “Are _you_ the person to talk to about perhaps acquiring something softer to sleep on than, say, a sack of pointy rocks?” 

_At least some of us are_ **_sleeping_ ** _._ Cullen thinks a bit bitterly, feeling the cling of fatigue in his shoulders and neck. 

“No,” and he jerks his head towards the Chantry, “You’d have better luck with Lady Montilyet, though I doubt it’d be high on her list at this moment.” 

“Pity,” Dorian shrugs, and resumes his intent looking. 

Cullen bristles, faintly, and scowls, “ _What_?” 

“You’re not what I expected.” 

Cullen...is not prepared for this statement. His response is the pinnacle of intelligence, “...What?” 

“You,” Dorian enunciates slowly, as if speaking to a recalcitrant child, “Are not what I expected. Our lovely Herald spoke very highly of you, and you seemed to match that praise when we planned our fun little trap and now...well, I’m a little confused.” 

Cullen can only stare at him, flustered, befuddled, and feeling sick. 

_Spoke highly of me?_

The mage continues after a moment, giving him a critical up and down, “Yes...I wasn’t... _quite_ expecting your reaction, when we returned. Though I can’t say I’m surprised, you Southerners _do_ have such old fashioned takes on your Circles and your Templars—well. I suppose I shouldn’t talk, at least you _have_ something to balance against magic, even if you’re going about it very poorly.” 

Another up and down and then Dorian grins cheekily, “But I _do_ agree that you _are_ very pretty.” 

Cullen feels his cheeks burn and huffs, “Terribly sorry I don’t meet your ideal of me, ser—if you’re quite done, I have work to do.” 

Dorian holds up his hands, flaps one at him dismissively, “By all means, Commander, please carry on.” 

The Commander turns, shaking his head faintly, and is frozen in place when he finds the Herald there. 

There’s a soft dusting of snowflakes in her hair, and she has a thick, wool shawl wrapped tightly around her, its fur-lined side pulled up around her neck against the cold. She doesn’t _like_ the cold, much, he knows, not like this—she's used to sun and warmth, and the cold of winter rain at sea and on the coast. He honestly hadn’t been sure she would return from the Storm Coast, when she had gone to meet the Chargers, and he still had the half-drawn up plans of moving the entirety of their operation _there_ to her. 

She doesn’t smile at him. She hasn’t in two weeks. 

He feels something break inside him. 

Still, she looks at him, and then for a moment it’s almost like she’s looking at him but _not seeing_ him, seeing someone else where he stands, and then it’s gone. She swallows dryly, and her arms tighten around herself a little more, pulling her shawl closer. 

“Commander,” she says quietly. 

It’s the first greeting outside the war room she’s given him. 

“My lady,” he inclines his head slightly. Because she doesn’t really like being called “Herald”, or “Mistress Lavellan” and “Pria” is _much_ too personal for the likes of him to be using with the person who is hopefully going to save them all. 

A moment passes, and then Dorian makes a thoughtful sound. Her eyes flicker over his shoulder, to the other mage and her brow furrows and Cullen feels a tingle go over his skin, raising goosebumps as he swears he _feels_ them have an entire conversation, right through him, without saying a word. 

He doesn’t _understand_ this thing between the two of them, and it’s not _for him,_ he knows that, but there’s still a pang in his chest. He wishes he _could_ understand her so easily, so he would know how to _fix this_. 

Dorian breaks the silence, boots crunching quietly in snow as he takes the few steps to Cullen’s side, claps him companionably on the shoulder. “How about this,” he offers, “You two get out of this Blighted cold—perhaps your quaint little house, darling?--and _I_ will try and find something passable for proper food. It’s near dinner as it is, and I don’t know about you, but I am _starving.”_

The Herald’s mouth quirks, a bit mocking but not unkind, “You’ve never starved a day in your life, _darling_ , you wouldn’t know what _starving_ is.” 

“True enough,” he accepts the rebuke with such grace that Cullen is rather impressed, “Be that as it may, I _am_ hungry, so I _will_ find us something as edible as I am able.” 

“As you wish,” she says, and then her eyes shift to him as Dorian struts away (he doesn’t walk, the Tevinter mage, Cullen has noticed, but _struts_ , and he’s not quite sure what to make if it, yet). He looks back at her, fighting the urge to drop eye-contact, and instead shifts to rest his wrists over the pommel of his sword. 

“Well. Come on, then.” It’s as close to a command as he’s heard her come, yet, and he doesn’t have it in him to disobey her. He follows her, up through the gates and steps and through the door of her little house, hesitating only for a moment before stepping in, the door shutting quietly behind them. 

It’s warm, with a fire crackling brightly away in the hearth, and it smells strongly of elfroot and rosemary. He can see bunches of it hanging from racks attached to the ceiling, drying for future use, and her armor and staff is set over in a corner, draped neatly over a chair. There’s a small chest beside it, with a small lock holding it shut. 

He watches as she walks over to a small table under the racks of herbs and sets a soft-sided basket down, a basket brimming with more herbs and what looks like some wild garlic and tubers. 

She’s pulling off her shawl and the small satchel that’s always at her back when he finally finds his words. “I don’t wish to intrude,” he says quietly, “I’ll leave, if you prefer.” 

The Herald glances at him, “Dorian said he was getting food for the three of us. So. Here you stay.” 

“And do you always give in to him so easily?” he asks, unable to stop the faintest edge of teasing creeping into his voice. He has no _right_ to, no business doing so, but there it is, anyway. “Since when did _you_ allow someone to boss you about?” 

She stares at him for a long moment, long enough that he begins to regret the small teasing and reminds himself that they are _not alright_. 

“He saved my life,” she says, “He’s the reason I was able to come back. If he wants to have dinner, why would I deny him something that is so easy for me to give?” 

“That wasn’t--I didn’t mean to offend. My apologies, that was...forward. It won’t happen again.” 

She’s staring again, and it strikes him that there’s something profoundly _sad_ in her eyes. Something that he feels _he_ is bringing out, and something else in him breaks with the realization that he’s _wounded_ her and he isn’t sure how to close it. 

“Would you care for tea?” she asks after a drawn-out silence, quiet and subdued, which alarms him somewhat, because she has been quiet, yes, melancholy, at times, but _subdued_ is _not_ something he would ever think to see associated with her. 

He nods, mutely, and is glad when she indicates a small cupboard on the wall where he finds a few cups and plates. He brings three mugs to her and sets them near her on the hearth, where she’s preparing kettle and pot, and then he’s left with nothing to do again, so he stands there, foolishly, and looks around again. 

The hearth has a mantle, a plain, sturdy plank of wood that’s bowed and buckled in some places with age. There’s a dingy glass bottle with a bunch of dried lavender tucked into it, smelling soft and sweet, and a rather ugly little straw doll with a rag for a skirt leaning against it. It’s mildly frightening, with mis-matched button eyes and a too-red, crooked smile. Next to that is a small jar, stoppered and sealed with wax, and filled with what looks like powdery gray ash. 

She stands, dusting her hands and legs free of dried tea flecks, and glances in the direction she finds him looking. Then she goes oddly still in that way she has, freezing in place and if she were in the trees, she would begin to fade away from view. 

“I know. Ugly little creature, isn’t it?” she tries after a moment, forced levity landing heavily enough that it drags his gaze back to her and his brow furrows. She shrugs a shoulder, “One of the little girls in the Crossroads gave it to me. After we brought back meat and supplies.” 

He knows the answer, somehow, even as he asks, “What happened?” 

Her smile is small and brittle, “She died. Bad lungs in the cold and wet, and she caught a fever.” 

He glances at the stoppered jar, questioningly. Her smile breaks. “That isn’t her,” she says after a moment to take a deep, steadying breath, “That’s...that’s someone else.” 

He realizes he has no idea how Dalish mourn and lay their dead to rest. He doesn’t ask. “I’m sorry,” he says, instead, because what else can he say? 

She laughs, which puzzles him, a broken, trembling laugh that’s edged almost with hysteria. He worries, and wonders if he ought to speak to Josephine and Leliana about, perhaps, giving their Herald a day or two _off_ before she breaks completely. 

This whole thing has not been kind to her. 

His worry increases when she takes the few steps between them abruptly and rests her forehead against his shoulder, even as his stomach turns with something bordering on elation that she is _near_ again. “My lady...are you alright?” 

A snort. “No. Not really. Redcliffe was...hard.” 

“I...yes. I imagine—I read the reports and—" he sighs, and rubs the bridge of his nose, his eyes, “And I...could have behaved more civilly when you returned.” 

Another snort. If the intent of it was an agreeable reprimand, it works because he feels himself flush a little with embarrassment. 

“We’re not monsters out to get you,” she says softly, and she sounds _so tired_ in that moment. “I wish you could believe that.” 

“I...I’m...trying. It was just...I was startled and I don’t _like_ surprises in the best circumstances. I wasn’t expecting...an alliance like that, I suppose.” 

“You’d prefer I’d conscripted them. Put them _back_ in chains.” 

“They _did_ pledge to a _Magister_ \--” 

“Because they were _scared_ !” She straightens, pins him in places with a glare, “Spirits, you sound just like your idiot shem king! He kicked them out of the place _he_ offered them refuge—and didn’t bother to think that maybe he should do a little more work before hand and try and find a _solution to the problem_ —he punished them because they were _scared_ and had _nowhere to go,_ so _of course_ they went for Alexius. He was their _best option_ to survive! It isn’t their fault he was in a cult, or that he decided he had the authority to kick out whoever-the-fuck was in charge! They were damned one way or another.” 

_Damned one way or another._

He felt a kinship with that, and he hesitates. But what if...? 

“I’m...I’m only worried about malefi--” 

“Don’t,” she growls, eyes narrowing, “Just _don’t_ . Vivienne already spoke to me like I’m a child. Like I don’t understand _magic._ That it’s _dangerous_ . Of course it’s dangerous, everything is fucking dangerous in some way. You don’t try to keep a bear for a pet because that would be _dangerous_ , and you don’t let a little one with magic just go around willy-nilly because that’s _dangerous_ . But _locking them up and teaching them to hate themselves is not the solution._ Do _you_ understand that? That the Circles have taught _generations_ of children to _hate and fear_ themselves? That you _throw them to demons_ in order to ‘prove’ themselves to _you, who have no magic, who do not know what it is like,_ and then you _murder them_ if they fail. That your ‘holy’ Chantry would allow the _slaughter_ of innocents under so-called Templar protection when they become unruly? That your Chantry, inevitably, condones the _genocide_ of an entire population who do not bow to their narrow definition of ‘truth’, because an entire population got _unruly_ over _injustice?_ How _dare_ you speak to me like _I_ am wrong. Like _I_ am a child. _I_ am of the _Elvhenan_ , and we have lived and _breathed_ the magic of this world longer than you humans have _existed.”_

He can’t breathe. He can’t think. He can’t look away from her, and his heart is pounding, and he finds he wants to drop to his knees because at this moment, with the fire lighting behind her, the sun setting through the window, burnishing her hair molten red and bronze, she is the closest thing to _divine_ he has ever seen in his life, all flame and seething, righteous fury and glittering, deep blue eyes that have him frozen on the spot. 

_Forgive me,_ and he isn’t sure if he’s praying to the Maker or to _her_. 

She glares at him for a few moments more before exhaling sharply and looking away and it’s only then that he can find breath again, and it’s ragged as he does. 

“I need you to do better, Cullen. I...I understand that it is _hard_ for you, and that you are _trying_ , but I need you to do _better_ ,” she says, dragging her fingers through her hair and staring at the floor. “Please. I need you on my side, I can’t _do this_ without you.” 

“I am on your side,” he whispers, reaching out and barely touching the side of her arm, “I’m sorry that I shouted at you. Condescended. I...” he almost chokes, words failing as Kinloch, Kirkwall, all the fear and pain, flash through him at once. 

_Do better._

_“I am on your side,”_ he repeats roughly. “I. ..will do better.” _He must._

If he doesn’t, he will lose whatever this fragile, precious thing they have is, and he thinks it might destroy him. He didn’t come here for friends, or for love, but if this is either of those things, he doesn’t want to let go. 

Pria’s shoulders slump as she lets out a heavy breath, and then she’s wrapping her arms tightly around him and pressing close and surely, _surely_ she can hear his heart hammering in his chest. “Thank you,” she murmured into his collar. Cullen struggles with himself, with conflicting desires, and ultimately propriety loses out to something else, and he returns the embrace, tightly, maybe a little too tightly, but she doesn’t protest and he can’t seem to find it in himself to care at this precise second. 

She smells of pine woods and cold air touched with sea salt, and sweet vanilla. 

_Maker he’s missed her._

She takes a breath, slowly let’s it out, and he shivers as it skates against his throat and _then_ her fingers curl at the back of his neck, just in his hair, and the pleased bolt that goes through his spine takes his breath away, nerves tingling from head to toe and he feels dazed, his head floating. He’d forgotten how it felt to have someone run their fingers through his hair, forgotten how fuzzy and lovely it is. 

He’d forgotten what it was to be touched softly. 

“I’m glad you’re alright,” she whispers and her lips, feather soft, moving against his neck might be the closest thing to heaven he’s found. 

It’s too much. There’s a storm happening in his chest and stomach, roaring through his head, the smell of her everywhere around him, the warmth of her hands and lips and breath, the weight of her against him, around him, her fingertips running gently through his hair, sending little sparking thrills through him that have his breath catching a little and she’s _here_ , _willingly_ , and they’ll be _alright_ again and he _will_ do better because she is _everything_ and he _never wants to be the cause of her hurt again--_

Pria shifts, straightens a little, her similar height rasping her cheek faintly against his and then he’s wondering how she got so _close_ because she’s _right there_ even though _yes,_ they _are_ still holding each other, and then he’s breathing her in, the same air as her, staring like the dazzled idiot he is into her depths-of-the-sea blue eyes and then-- 

And then... 

_Oh._

_Oh, Maker._

He had been wrong. 

Her lips. Her lips against his. 

Her kiss was the closest thing to heaven he’s found, and she was _fucking sacred._

~*~*~*~ 

The second time she kisses him, there’s no blood and pain and fear. There’s no humming red, or the stink of an old castle, the sick twisting of a torn Veil and magic gone wrong. 

There’s just her being impulsive, and glad he’s alive, and that’s he’s stupid and stubborn but _there_ , and that he will try. He will try and try and try. He will fail. And then he’ll get up, dust off, and try again, and they will argue and fight, but she thinks that she’ll come back, because she seems to _always_ come back to him. 

And he’s _there_. 

There and he has pretty brown eyes, and beautiful golden curls, and has a handsome face with sadness in it that she wants to kiss away. 

She shouldn’t want him. He’s everything she’s been taught to fear, to be wary of, to stay far from. Templar. Chantry-loyal. Human, an _unknown human._ But, she wants him. Pria wants what she wants, and she always has, and sometimes she even lets her good sense get locked up by her own idiocy and decides to get what she wants. 

Maybe if she kisses him enough, he won’t be so afraid of magic, one day. Maybe he’ll learn to see that it’s beautiful in the same way most dangerous things are, and that if you’re careful, and respect it, there’s very little to _be_ afraid of. 

So she kisses him, in her little house in Haven, with the sun setting and Dorian no doubt arriving soon with dinner, with both of them running high from tension and adrenaline and _relief_ to be on friendly terms again, and he’s kissing her back, a strangled, wanting sound catching in his chest, and then his hand is on her hip, pulling her into him and she melts into him, lets him catch her weight and hold them both up. 

_Stubborn. Roots that go deep in earth and rock._

His lips are soft, chapped from cold, and she can taste the faint lingering trace of strong, black tea and honey. Her stomach flutters pleasantly, and there’s a playful thrill when the edge of his tongue sweeps against her lower lip. 

Pria is happy to find that, when not in a life-and-death situation, Cullen is a _good kisser_. 

They’re both breathing shakily when it ends, her hands curled into his hair and the fur of his mantle, and his eyes remain closed for several heartbeats before fluttering open to look at her. 

“Maker’s breath,” he whispers, the corner of his mouth pulling up a little crookedly. 

She smiles, and rubs her nose against his. 

“Is...is this how we’re apologizing to one another now?” he asks, “Because if so, I _might_ be starting rows more often.” 

She blinks, startled. And then she is _delighted_ . “Cullen Rutherford,” she says, “Did you just _flirt_ with me?” 

He’s grinning now, all imp and boyish charm. “Yes.” 

She _likes_ this side of him; Pria laughs, light and airy, content and happier than she’s felt in _days_. 

**Author's Note:**

> So...In Hushed Whispers always stuck with me, particularly the scene when the Quizzie comes back and Cullen goes from mad to bantering in a friendly manner.
> 
> Nah. That isn't how it goes. That shit was dramatic and traumatic.
> 
> This is more how it goes. For Pria, anyway, who has a Bad Time, and Cullen can be a Raging Asshat, and Dorian is 100% Pria's soul-mate, this will be pried from my cold, dead hands.
> 
> I think I've tried getting this idea written out three or four times and I'm finally mostly happy with how this worked out--it was an interesting chance to look into some of the harder, flintier parts of Pria that maybe aren't all that "good", and it was interesting to sort of poke around in how they were feeling and coping. Playing around with Cullen and how I perceive him and how he was feeling and thinking is also always fun.
> 
> I also really dislike angst that ends angsty so for my own mental well-being, I like to give that stuff a reasonable happy ending, when I can. And these two kids deserve happy endings.


End file.
